Keep the Heart
by The-Lonely-Pen
Summary: Norway is desperate for a baby of his own.  *Really* desperate.  Not mpreg or genderbend.  Established DenNor relationship.
1. Today

"_Making the decision to have a child ... is to decide forever to have your heart walking around outside your body." - Elizabeth Stone._

**Today**

There's a short hum before the ring of a cell phone cuts into the silence of the night. It takes a moment for Denmark to awaken and grope blindly on his nightstand for it.

He shouldn't answer it – who the hell would be calling him at this hour? He doesn't recognise the number so it can't be important. But groaning and kicking his legs, frustrated, his curiosity gets the better of him and he answers it.

"What is it?" Denmark barks down the phone to the mystery caller.

There's shallow breathing on the other end. People talking in the background. Prank call.

He's about to hang up when –

"Denmark – "

He slowly recognises the voice. It's ... different ... strained. "Norge?" He looks beside him. The bed is empty and cold.

"Denmark ... Denmark, I've done something bad."

Norway's voice is barely a whisper. There's also a tone he hasn't heard in years – panic.

"Norge? What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"No," comes the whispered response. "You need to come down to the police station. I've been arrested – "

"Arrested? – what? What the hell for?" Denmark splutters, already out of bed and slipping his feet into the first pair of shoes he can find.

Norway doesn't answer at first. Then, "I-I'll ... I can't talk long. Please j-just come and get me and I'll explain."

Denmark stops. Norway seems hesitant. _Too_ hesitant. "Norway," he says slowly, "How much bail money do I need to bring?"

Silence.

"A lot."


	2. Two months ago

**Two months ago**

Iceland doesn't need him anymore. He never _really_ needed Norway to begin with. When the Danish boat lodged in the soft sands of the lonely island centuries ago, the boy was already self-sufficient. Not even two foot tall, with a mop of messy silver hair, the boy could already walk, catch a fish, weave a tunic. He could already talk in a language he'd invented – he had a talking puffin and they could converse sensibly for hours about all manner of thing.

The only childlike aspect about Iceland had been his size. He'd been stubborn. Protesting when Norway would try to carry him, or help him up if he stumbled. But Iceland's solemnity eventually faded. And then there were cuddles. And bed-time stories. And piggy-back rides.

But then Iceland grew up. Norway had been reluctant to leave the crying child behind, but there are things no child should see. And when he returned from bloody battle, Iceland was no longer a child. There were no more piggy-back rides.

Now, practically living full-time with Denmark in busy Copenhagen, he sees Iceland only a handful of times a year, mostly at meetings. Iceland has his own country and his own troubles to worry about. He doesn't get to visit as much as Norway wants him to.

Denmark doesn't notice the heaviness in his lover's heart. The emptiness. The loneliness. He just thinks it's Norway's usual stoic ways. Not a lot of emotion. Aloof. Blank.

So Denmark doesn't think anything of Norway occasionally glancing at babies when they walk. Doesn't realise he wants one of his own. His very own. A little Norway. A baby made of love, which shares his genetics. Which will be a miniature version of himself. One that won't already be able to walk or talk or push him away and tell him he doesn't need his help.

Norway knows he can never really be the kind of father he wants to be. And he couldn't adopt – he looks like he's barely 18 years old. The best he can hope for it to find a new Iceland. Find a new child-nation to love. He wonders whether he should give the Svalbard its independence. Maybe if he sailed to its shores on that day he would find a child waiting for him. Waiting for his guiding hand, his caring heart. But in the modern world ... it wouldn't be the same. The Svalbard is already industrialised. It has its own Government, its own economy. There would probably be no child. Just another grown up Iceland.

So the idea is abandoned. And the loneliness remains. He's got the love to give, just no one to give it to.

He learns to compensate. When he sees the local elementary school is having a fair, he volunteers to bake cookies and cupcakes. He mans the stall, selling the treats to parents, sneaking them to the children for free. They're a hit and the children adore them. It makes him feel warm inside. When he visits the National Museum of Denmark, he sees school groups bored out of their skulls, whining about wanting to go home. So he tells them stories of the Viking days – full of adventures with long boats and bravery. The teachers think he works at the museum and are glad for something to entertain the kids. The children listen rapt to him, crying when he has to leave. It makes him feel needed.

But something is still missing. Sure, he's brightening kids' lives, but these are cosmetic actions. He wants to _change_ a life. To really _mean something_.

When Norway reads the newspaper that night as Denmark sleeps, he sees a small article which makes his heart jump. A doctor from Copenhagen University Hospital came back from a visit to America raving about a hospital program where volunteers cuddled premature babies to aid their development. Some new parents were just exhausted, the article said. And some babies don't have visitors or cuddles for other reasons. And now CUH want to trial it, too. The article calls for volunteers. Norway's heart nearly explodes out of his chest. _This_. This is what he was meant to do.

* * *

A/N: Truefax: hospitals in America and Australia have these cuddle programs for premmie babies. They probably exist elsewhere, too, but these are the ones I know about.


	3. Seven weeks ago

**Seven weeks ago**

The day after reading the newspaper, Norway sent Denmark away on an errand. He got to the hospital before it opened for visitors and waited outside until a nurse, weary from the night shift, gave him a form to fill in. He lied on it, saying he was 22 and a university student. There's only a handful of volunteers so they take him on.

For the first week he isn't allowed to touch the babies and is given a lifelike doll to practice on. There's a lot of training but Norway is the star pupil. He wants to learn as much he can so he can help as many babies as possible. Change as many lives as possible. And maybe change the heavy feeling in his own life. He'll never be a father. But for a few hours, he'll be the most important person in a baby's life, and that's more than he should have.

His favourite time of the day is when the lessons end. There's a hallway in the maternity ward where visitors can see the new-born babies through a glass window. He stays at the window from when training stops until visiting hours end. He touches the glass, nose almost pressed to it, his breath gently fogging it as he watches the little babies inside.

He thinks they're all beautiful. Tiny. Delicate. Fragile. He looks jealously at the new parents who gaze adoringly through the window at their miracles. Occasionally, a nurse will scoop up one of the babies and bring it out from behind the glass, handing it to the beaming parents. The baby wouldn't be there the next day. He wants that. He wants Denmark to stand beside him and look through the glass to see _their_ baby quietly sleeping, getting prepared to go home with them.

Being in such close proximity to the precious new lives causes his day-dreaming to go into over-drive. His imagination weaves beautiful scenes of a little family of his very own. Right now, he doesn't care that when he comes back down to earth the loneliness will be ever greater.

After the first day of training, he decided he would better suit a little boy than a little girl. While Denmark sleeps, Norway sits quietly on the floor of his study, practicing the rocking technique he learnt with the doll. He'd looked up baby names on the internet. Little Norway's name, he decided, would be Christian. A traditional Norwegian name, but also one of two names given to Danish crown princes. That would please Denmark.

Norway would also convert the study to a nursery. It was shielded from the morning sun so little Christian wouldn't be disturbed. And it looked out at the back garden so it was quiet and peaceful. He already knew which shade of blue he'd paint the walls. The same colour as the wildflowers in Bergen. It would probably only take him a day to re-paint the room.

But Norway knows these are just fanciful day-dreams. He and Denmark can't produce a baby. And he can't recall Denmark ever wanting a baby, yearning for a baby.

Norway consoles himself. The week will soon be up, and soon he'd be rocking a real baby and not a plastic doll. If only for a few hours a day. A real baby which was warm to touch and had a tiny beating heart. His cuddles would help the baby breathe, help the baby develop faster, help make the baby healthier. His heart grows with happiness and anticipation. He stashes the doll away for another night.

Iceland visits unexpectedly the weekend after Norway's first week at the hospital. He's pleased as punch about something and Norway is suspicious. He takes his puffin out of his satchel. And then a much smaller puffin. Iceland said Puffin disappeared for a few days and then he found him at the bird cliffs. Puffin had been nuzzling the crying new-born puffin, its dead mother in the nest. Puffin had adopted a child.

Norway spends the weekend with his brother, playing with Puffin and its new baby. Sometimes, Puffin blocks Norway from interacting with his baby. Protecting it. Guarding it. Keeping it safe.

Norway drives Iceland to the airport on Sunday night. He gives his brother a teary hug and holds him much longer than he usually does. Iceland breaks away and play punches Norway in the arm. He's not a child, he tells Norway.

No, he's not. He never really was.


	4. Six weeks ago

**Six weeks ago**

Finally the day arrives when Norway can put his learning and preparation into action. He showers early and breakfasts happily with Denmark, waving the Dane goodbye when his lover leaves for work. He then has another shower using a special antiseptic soap the nurses gave him and dresses in linen slacks and a button-up shirt.

He's scheduled to start in the morning shift and when he walks through the front doors of the hospital, his stomach is already knotted with more emotions than he can recognise. Fear. Anticipation. Hope.

A nurse he's never seen before introduces herself as the nurse in charge of the shift. They walk silently past the window of newborn babies that Norway has been pressing himself against for the past week. He can't help but smile as he passes. They each wash their hands with antiseptic before an unseen person buzzes them into the preemie baby ward.

Norway stops short in the doorway. For a moment, his face returns to the stony gaze he shows to the world instead of the uncharacteristic smile that's danced on his lips more recently.

This ward isn't like the ward he day-dreams in front of.

There's ... medical equipment ... _everywhere_. Tiny babies lie in little plastic boxes with holes cut out of the sides, connected to gastric feeding tubes or with IV lines dripping clear fluids into them at a steady pace. Other babies wear masks and lie under phototherapy lamps to treat jaundice. He sees babies hooked up to massive ventilators, pumps rising and falling as they force air into little lungs. There's a constant hum in the air of heart monitors, oxygen machines, drips.

Norway feels something strange bubbling up inside him. Revulsion. These aren't the babies he's dreamed about. His fantasies are filled with happy, healthy babies who smile and gurgle. Not discoloured infants with jaundice, or translucent-skinned, bony babies gasping for air. He wanted to cuddle the chubby babies with plump faces who responded to snuggles and laughed. He feels his eyes growing hot. He turns and runs.

Norway finds the nearest bathroom and rushes inside. He locks himself in an empty cubicle, puts the toilet lid down and collapses onto it. He lets the tears overflow and stream down his pale face. Raking sobs shudder through his body and he can barely breathe. He suppresses the urge to vomit. It wasn't meant to be like this. This isn't what he wanted. It was as if Fate itself wouldn't allow him to be happy. He tried so hard to fill the hole in his heart. He thought _this_ was the answer. But it's not. Instead it's ... it's _disgusting_.

And yet underneath it all, he finds himself the most disgusting of all.

_You're a horrible human being_, his mind tells him. _If you're even human..._

He tries to shake the thoughts out of his head.

_Who are you to judge them? Who are you to say they're "wrong" ... that they're "disgusting"? _

Norway claps his hands to his ears but it doesn't help.

_You're just like everyone else. Judgemental. Prejudiced. Shallow._

Norway wipes furiously at his eyes with clenched fists, his breathing ragged and uneven.

_You were weak once._

Norway's breath catches in his throat.

_Don't you remember? Remember when you couldn't survive by yourself? When you needed other, stronger nations to save you?_

He's still for a moment and his mind suddenly clears. Then he feels punched in the stomach as ancient memories flood back to him tenfold. Sweden. Denmark. Finland. Russia. War. Disease. Famine. _Weakness. _Needing Sweden. Needing Denmark. Being second. Never being first. Forming unions so he could survive. Letting other nations dominate him so his people could be fed. Independence. _Independence. INDEPENDENCE._

He _was_ weak once. He _was_ helpless once. But he's not anymore.

He stands up angrily. This _is_ what he wanted. What he dreamed about. A little Norway. _Just like him_. Starting life as a weak being. And just like him, growing stronger and growing up. And then, being weak no longer.

Norway unlocks the cubicle. He moves to the basin where he splashes cold water on his blotchy face, trying to hide the evidence of his crying. He dries his hands and leaves, and walks back down the corridor to the ward.


End file.
